


Take Two Pizzas and Call Me in the Morning

by greyskygirl, SevereStorms, wreckingthefinite



Category: Actor RPF, Captain America (Movies) RPF, Marvel Cinematic Universe RPF
Genre: Belly Kink, Chubby Kink, Chubby Subby Seb, Feeding Kink, Hand Feeding, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sickfic, Weight Gain, the weight gain already happened but obviously it's important
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-18
Updated: 2016-11-18
Packaged: 2018-08-31 17:06:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8586751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greyskygirl/pseuds/greyskygirl, https://archiveofourown.org/users/SevereStorms/pseuds/SevereStorms, https://archiveofourown.org/users/wreckingthefinite/pseuds/wreckingthefinite
Summary: Inspired by that gif of Chris and Sebastian shooting the CW water rescue scene. 
What if Seb got sick? What if Chris took care of him in his own special way?





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [superstringtheory](https://archiveofourown.org/users/superstringtheory/gifts).



It’s neither the longest nor the most grueling day on set that Sebastian’s had as Bucky Barnes, but it is a special kind of torture. He’s shooting the water rescue scene with Chris—a favorite of his because it’s such a great parallel to Winter Soldier, another arrow into the hearts of all the fans who have feelings about the relationship between Steve and Bucky. 

Sebastian can’t blame them; he’s got feelings about it, too. The unshakable love—however you choose to see it—and the loyalty that he and Chris work so hard to portray faithfully. And so this scene is important: it’s just them, just their characters, surviving whatever’s thrown at them. 

He wants to get it right. They all do. He’s lost track of how many takes it’s been, gasping a breath and letting himself sink underwater, all so Chris can throw an arm around him and haul him to the surface. If the henley was tight before, the sodden material stretched across his chest, now it’s maybe a little obscene. And as much as he’s looking forward to getting out of his waterlogged jeans, Sebastian’s not entirely sure he’s going to have the energy to peel the denim off whenever they finally wrap this scene. 

The tank’s cooler than he’d expected, given how closely the Russos monitor every detail of production. It might not be the water, though. His voice is the tiniest bit raspy, which led him to forego his usual morning coffee for a hot tea, even though he’s got no dialogue in this scene. He needed that soothing heat in the back of his throat. Chris’s chest pressed against his back, Chris’s arm banded around his waist ... that’s a different heat entirely. 

And he needs it no matter how his throat feels. 

“Seb. _Seb._ ” 

Chris is talking to him, leaning in. Sebastian shivers and tries to focus.

“You okay?” Chris’s voice is so close and so serious. 

“I’m good,” Sebastian promises, realizing after the words spill out automatically—of course he’s fine, they’re working, he’s not going to delay production because he’s bone-tired or his throat hurts—that it’s the first time he’s lied to Chris. 

Those blue-water eyes are studying him carefully, but Chris nods and accepts it, because Chris is the kind of guy who has friends who don’t lie to him. Better friends than Sebastian. Friends who are okay with just being his friend, even. 

They get back into position and do it again. Sebastian accidentally opens his eyes. Again. Chris’s grip on him slips, and they pop up to the surface separately. Again. Sebastian leans a little too heavily on Chris, and Chris waves a hand as they break the surface, pulling Sebastian over to the side of the tank. He doesn’t let go. 

“Can we get a quick break?” The tone’s polite, because Chris is always polite, but it’s not a request. 

Joe, who’s wearing a puffy coat and holding a Starbucks cup and probably doesn’t mean to be taunting Sebastian with warmth and caffeine, is instantly apologetic. “Of course. Here, Chris, Seb—get out of there, let’s check the temperature.” 

Sebastian sags into Chris a little. If he escapes the tank, he’s not sure he can force himself to get back in. He says as much to Chris, quietly, trying to make it a joke, but Chris nods. 

“Nah, we’re good here—can you maybe hand me that Thermos, though? Let me just revive this guy, and maybe we can get this part wrapped.” 

Sebastian gives a thumbs-up, leaning against the side of the tank and trying to shift his weight off Chris, conscious of the arm Chris still has around his waist. An assistant passes Chris a Thermos, and he pushes it immediately into Sebastian’s hand. 

“Drink, Seb.” 

He’d do it anyway, but the soft, steely command compels instant acquiescence. The coffee doesn’t soothe Sebastian’s throat as he gulps greedily, but it sends a bolt of heat through his body. 

He passes the Thermos back to Chris, who shrugs, looking almost guilty as he admits that he’s not really that cold. 

Sebastian nods as he shivers, trying to look like someone who remembers what it feels like to be warm, and then Joe leans in to ask if they’re ready to go again. 

“Absolutely,” Sebastian says, ignoring the dubious glance Chris slides his way. He coughs once, and his throat burns. “Come on, I’m fine, let’s do this.” 

Again. He takes the deepest breath he can manage and watches Chris do the same, and then they’re underwater, Chris pulling him into his body before launching them both up toward the surface. Sebastian doesn’t even really have to do any work in this scene, and he’s still exhausted. 

And apparently he’s not great at playing unconscious dead weight, because Joe and Anthony are conferring again, shaking their heads. 

“Let’s go one more time,” Anthony calls, his eyes on the monitor, and Sebastian groans softly. 

Chris is in his ear again. “So am I the world’s worst rescuer or what? Jesus.” 

Sebastian manages a laugh with what feels like the last of his strength. “No, they’re just trying to see if we can look any more tragic. A few more takes, and I’m actually gonna _be_ unconscious, which might make your job easier.” 

He hears Chris’s sharp inhale and backpedals, twisting to the side so they can stare at each other while Sebastian forces his mouth into something like a reassuring smile. “I’m fine, seriously. We’ll be done soon.” 

Again. 

*

“You should let me order you some food while you take a shower,” Chris hears himself say, the words falling out of his mouth entirely of their own volition. 

Sebastian looks at him sidelong, his eyes partially obscured by the ball cap he’d pulled down over his still-wet hair when they’d _finally_ wrapped the scene and finished for the day. He looks like shit in the fluorescent light of the hotel hallway, dark circles under his eyes, his cheeks pale. “You—uh, you don’t have to do that. I’m just gonna crash, anyway.”

“ _No_.” Shit. His mouth is still calling its own shots, apparently, making him sound desperate and a little bossy, neither of which are chords that Chris wants to strike with Sebastian. Well. Maybe the latter, but only in his most secret fantasies, the kind he doesn’t even acknowledge to himself, let alone to anyone else. The kind of fantasies where he tells Sebastian what to do until he blushes, bites his lip, falls apart under Chris’s orders. The kind of fantasies that Chris will never, ever act upon. “I mean—no, it’s no big deal. We worked all day. You need some food, especially if you’re getting sick.”

Sebastian is still eyeing him strangely, but he nods, looking like he’s exhausted enough that he doesn’t really care why Chris is offering his services. 

“Yeah, okay,” he says, digging in his pocket for his room key and then waving it haphazardly at the key box. 

“Here,” Chris says, grabbing it out of Sebastian’s hand—and Christ, he’s being so fucking bossy, Sebastian brings it out him, it’s unnerving—and holding it up to be scanned. 

Sebastian just waits, allowing Chris to open the door and usher him inside. He looks docile as a kitten—a very large, damp, miserable kitten. 

“Go shower. I’ll get food,” Chris says, because apparently Sebastian is content to be herded around, and this is an opportunity Chris can’t pass up, the closest he’ll ever come to those late-night fantasies he might occasionally indulge in. 

“What kind of food?” Sebastian asks. He sounds like shit, his voice hoarse, but he must not be _that_ sick, if he’s still worried about food. 

“Chicken noodle soup?” Chris says, hiding a smile, just to see what he’ll say. 

Sebastian tugs his hoodie up and over his head, moving slowly like his muscles hurt. When he emerges and tosses it over the back of the nearest chair, he wrinkles his nose. “Soup? Get some real food, yeah? I’m sick. I should get pizza.”

Chris grins. “Is pizza what you get when you’re sick?” 

“You get whatever you want when you’re sick,” Sebastian explains, looking at him like he’s a little slow. “Didn’t your mom do that?”

Chris shakes his head and smiles. It’s so fucking endearing, the way Sebastian’s like that, weirdly self-indulgent in funny little ways. “No, we got chicken noodle soup out of a can and Saltines when we were sick.” He considers for a moment. “Also Sprite. That’s universal sick food.” 

“That’s sad food, is what it is,” Sebastian says, coughing into the crook of his arm and turning toward the shower. “No soup, man. I’m begging you.”

The words send a little thrill up Chris’s spine, and he runs a hand through his hair, reminds himself to chill the fuck out. “No soup, then. Promise.”

*

The shower feels good—so fucking good—and Sebastian turns the water up as hot as he can stand it. It’s the first time he’s felt warm enough all day, and he leans against the wall and just basks in the spray, letting the water pour over him. Christ, he’s tired. But Chris is here, ordering him food and taking care of him for whatever inexplicable reason, and even though he feels like shit, Chris’s presence is enough to revive him just a little. God, it’s torturous, having him this close, playing the role of caretaker. All Sebastian wants is to go out front and curl up against him, bask in his body heat, press up against him – all things that go well beyond any standard of friendship. 

When he finally gets out, he pulls on one of the hotel robes and studiously avoids looking in the mirror. It’s already kind of a dicey proposition, looking at himself lately. He’s so _big_ , bigger than he’s ever been before, and sometimes it’s a shock, looking in the mirror and seeing someone unfamiliar staring back. Looking in the mirror right now, when he’s sick and feverish and miserable, would be even worse. 

It figures that Chris is here when he looks like shit. Chris, with his perfectly sculpted arms—so perfect they shot an entire fucking scene around them the other day, Jesus, it had been excruciating and Sebastian is pretty sure from the outtakes he saw that it’s going to end up looking like Bucky crashed a helicopter because he couldn’t look away from Steve Rogers’ fucking biceps—and his ballerina waist and his chiseled jaw, all so very different from the way Sebastian looks right now. 

Sebastian sighs. He probably should have taken Chris up on that chicken soup offer. Wardrobe has already been yelling at him for “popping out of everything” they shove him into; the last thing he needs is a pizza. 

But when he opens the door and steps out into the suite, it’s clear that pizza is what he’s getting. There are two boxes stacked on the coffee table, along with a two liter of Sprite and a little foil container that Sebastian assumes contains breadsticks. There’s also a room service tray with a coffeepot and cups. 

He blinks at Chris, who’s on the couch in a very proprietary sprawl. “That’s a lot of pizza,” he says, because he can’t think of anything else to say. 

“You’re sick, so according to your logic you deserve it. Come on,” Chris says, handing over the two-liter and picking everything else up. “Go get in bed. I got you hot chocolate, too. Figured your throat hurt, maybe?” 

And that is how Sebastian finds himself bundled up in bed, wrapped in a robe and a pile of blankets, with Chris sitting cross-legged beside him and handing him an entire box of pizza. 

*

“Aren’t you having any?” Sebastian asks, around his first mouthful of pizza. 

“Oh. Yeah, sure.” Chris takes a slice of pizza, more as a kind of camouflage than anything else, although he is a little hungry. It would be weird, he knows, to just sit here and watch Sebastian eat pizza. Definitely weird – although it’s exactly what he wants to do. 

“How do you feel?” he asks. “Want me to call the front desk, see if they have NyQuil or whatever?” 

“I don’t even know if I have a cold. I’m tired, though, and my throat feels weird.” 

“That’s how colds always start,” Chris points out, opening a little tub of garlic butter and placing it next to the breadsticks. “Here.” He dips a breadstick in butter and hands it to Sebastian. 

Sebastian hesitates just a second before biting into the fried bread, covered in grease and parmesan cheese, and shakes his head. “Wardrobe’s already pissed at me. I barely fit in my costume as it is.” He pats his belly, which looks almost round, wrapped in the thick robe and extra hotel comforter. Chris’s heart and dick throb as one, and he imagines what it would be like if instead of the bulky robe and extra blankets, it was just Sebastian underneath the covers, looking that thick and a little bit round. 

“C’mon, you’re staving off a cold, they can’t get pissed about that.” 

Sebastian stuffs the rest of the breadstick in his mouth. “I really _do_ feel kind of out of it.” 

“See? You’ve probably been on some kind of crazy diet for months, right? That shit fucks with your immune system.” He hands Sebastian another piece of pizza and pours Sprite into a plastic cup. 

“And pizza fixes it?” Sebastian grins. “Whatever, man.” 

“Hey, I said soup, you’re the one who wanted pizza.” 

“Yeah, I guess I was,” Sebastian says. “But – I don’t know – you don’t think I look a little -” 

“Great. You look great.” Feels great, too, and Chris should know, he’d spent the whole afternoon with one arm around Seb’s thick, soft waist, trying not to notice the way his shirt clung to his chest, or the way his jeans stuck to his thighs. Or the way - 

“I look huge. Did you see the dailies?” 

Chris had seen the dailies, and Seb did, undeniably, look huge. “You look like a guy who needs more pizza, is what you look like.” 

“Chris,” Sebastian says, laughing and pushing the pizza box away. “I absolutely do not.” 

Chris looks down at the pizza box, then up at Sebastian, nerves singing. “Then have some more for me. Because I want you to.” 

*

For a moment, Sebastian thinks he must have misheard, or just misunderstood. Chris is just being his usual kind, sweetheart of a self – isn’t he? He doesn’t mean anything by it, he’s just being nice, he couldn’t possibly - 

“C’mon. For me?” Chris lifts out a piece of pizza, folds it lengthwise, the way Sebastian always does, and holds it up in front of him. 

“You want me to -” 

“Yes.” Chris moves the pizza closer. “C’mon.” 

Slowly, Sebastian leans forward and takes a tiny bite. 

“Good,” Chris says, a little breathlessly, and it’s only now that Sebastian notices the way Chris’s hand, holding the pizza, trembles slightly with nervous energy. He meets Chris’s eyes and leans forward, deliberately taking a bigger, slower bite. Just to see what will happen. 

He’d swear Chris’s pupils had just dilated. And at that single syllable - _good_ \- he’d felt his pulse quicken a little. Like maybe he wants to be good for Chris. Like maybe he wants Chris to stay a while, take care of him a little more. 

“I think it’s helping,” he says. “I feel better already.” 

Chris offers up the pizza again, then lifts the plastic cup of Sprite to Sebastian’s lips. He starts slow, taking his time, although Sebastian can practically feel him vibrating with some deep, barely-suppressed need. By the time they’re through the first pizza, he can’t stand the distance between them for another second. He scoots back against the headboard of the bed. “D’you wanna…?” 

“Yeah,” Chris says, straddling his legs, dragging the second pizza box closer, and _god,_ Sebastian can’t quite bring himself to believe this is actually happening. Chris Evans, Captain America, sitting on his lap and feeding him pizza. It’s making him feel hot, in more ways than one. 

“I’m just gonna - ” Sebastian says, tugging the robe loose, letting in a little air. 

“You okay? Feverish?” Chris asks, and he looks so pretty, so fucking pretty, a pink flush across the tops of his angular cheekbones, blue eyes bright. 

He’s not feverish at all, not in the sense of being sick, but Chris seems to be into that, too – the idea of taking care of him – so he rolls with it. “Yeah. Feel my forehead.” 

Chris brushes damp hair away from his forehead, rests his palm there. “You’re all hot,” he says. “Burning up.” 

“I know.” 

“Drink some more of this,” Chris says, and Sebastian obediently sips more Sprite, then gulps it as Chris tips the rest of it into his mouth. Sprite dribbles down his chin, but he doesn’t care, he’s completely fixated on Chris, scooting in closer, pulling his robe open and slipping a hand inside, sliding it down his chest to his belly, which – embarrassingly – is a little distended from all the pizza and breadsticks and Sprite. 

“You’re doing so good,” Chris says, rubbing his hand up and down over Sebastian’s middle. “So good. Can you – a little more?”

It feels like a big deal when Sebastian says, “Sure.” 

It feels like a bigger deal when Chris sets down the cup and puts a tentative hand on the robe where it’s starting to slip off Sebastian’s shoulder. “You look … flushed. Don’t want you to be too warm.”

Chris is asking, and it’s such a small thing in light of everything Sebastian wants to give, so nodding yes is automatic, as is the brighter flush when Chris tugs the robe fully open and slides it off.

He’s so exposed. The swell of his belly, showing the excess of Chris’s care. The color on his soft, round cheeks, trailing down his neck, showing his reaction to that care. Sebastian’s pretty sure Chris is seeing it all, and now the blanket over his lap’s the only thing keeping this remotely innocent.

Which is a joke -- it stopped being innocent when he came out in a robe. Or when he leaned back into Chris when he didn’t technically need the support. Or … months before that. He’s trying to soften the blow to his own heart in case Chris suddenly scrambles backward and thinks better of … whatever this is. But Chris is still watching him, pink lips half-parted in something that looks like awe, and Chris is still touching him, big hand sliding over the fullest part of his belly.

It feels good and right, and Sebastian’s wanted this for longer than he’s willing to admit, even if he’d never actually imagined these particular circumstances. But if a long day and a lot of pizza have brought him here, well, there’s only one thing to do.

“A little more,” he echoes back to Chris, sinking back into the pillow and exhaling so that his stomach rounds out just a tiny bit farther.

“Yeah?” Chris has another slice in hand before Sebastian nods his answer.

“Told you, it’s helping. It’s good.” He means what they’re doing, how close Chris is, the way Chris is looking at him right now. _God._

“ _You’re_ good,” Chris says quietly, and Sebastian leans in for another bite, eyes locked with Chris’s, that weird, wonderful energy zinging between them.

Every bite seems to be leading them closer to something, something more than an empty pizza box and a half-empty two-liter, and when the slice is gone, Chris grins and gestures a little shyly at Sebastian’s mouth.

“You’ve, got, uh --”

Sauce. He felt it and ignored it, and now he looks back at Chris, a little challenge in his eyes. Sebastian arches one eyebrow and waits.

Chris raises his hand, and Sebastian trembles a little, anticipating the brush of a finger, the whisper of a touch. Chris’s fingers simply cup his cheek for a second instead of straying toward his mouth.

He wants to remember Chris’s expression forever: impossibly fond, tinged with want that Sebastian recognizes without understanding it. He’s capturing the memory of the particular shade of blue Chris’s eyes have turned -- a little darker and yet somehow brighter -- when Chris leans in and kisses him.

_Oh._

It’s easier than breathing to fall into the kiss, to give into the welcome onslaught of Chris’s mouth on his -- and all the while, Chris keeps a hand on his belly, stroking the taut skin while he’s stroking his tongue into Sebastian’s mouth. 

This is what it is to be undone. And when the kiss breaks, Sebastian gasps a breath and tries to piece himself back together, but then Chris’s hand is sliding off his belly, under the blanket.

“Please.” It’s the only word he can manage, the only one he can think, and Chris nods seriously, as if Sebastian wasn’t already writhing under his touch.

*

It’s almost more than Chris can stand, looking down at Sebastian and seeing how absolutely wrecked he is, the way he’s thrown back against the pillows, flushed cheeks and disheveled hair and— _Jesus fucking Christ_ —distended belly. His wide eyes are tracking Chris’s every movement, like he’s waiting for instruction, and he can’t seem to catch his breath. Chris isn’t sure if it’s because he’s full, or he’s sick, or he’s just desperate. Maybe all three. 

“Shh,” he mumbles, which is probably a stupid thing to do – Sebastian isn’t actually talking, to begin with – but it comes out anyway, and Sebastian seems to relax a little, so Chris says it again. “Shh.”

And then he wraps his hand carefully around Sebastian’s dick. He doesn’t do anything, just grips him gently for a second and uses his other hand to tug the blanket completely out of the way. “Christ, you’re fucking gorgeous,” he says, because it’s true, it’s so gloriously, achingly true, but also because Sebastian looks simultaneously thrilled and mortified at being exposed like this. He looks weirdly shy, like he’s a solid 200 pounds—or maybe 210, Chris’s brain helpfully suggests, a thought that makes his dick lurch painfully against his jeans—but also like he’s delicate, almost fragile, somehow. 

Sebastian snorts a little, and Chris can barely tear his eyes away from his tummy, from the way it jiggles ever-so-slightly at the exhale. “I look sick and chubby,” he says, knee-jerk self-deprecation. 

Chris shakes his head slowly, moving his gaze pointedly from Sebastian’s flushed cheeks to the curve of his tummy to his full, pretty cock. “Gorgeous, Seb, _fuck_ , prettiest thing I’ve ever seen,” and he could be talking about Sebastian’s belly, or his dick, or his flushed and chubby cheeks, but he’s really talking about all of it, all of _him_. “Let me show you.” 

Sebastian gasps a little as Chris slides down his body, dropping kisses across his chest—wide, impossibly wide, muscles just starting to blur with pudge—and Chris nips at him lightly, mouthing the softest part of his pecs, right above his belly. He bites down just enough that Sebastian jumps, groaning, but his hips snap forward, hard, so Chris does it again. 

He kisses down his stomach next, the round curve of his upper belly that’s taut with pizza and Sprite, then down to the best part, the soft, soft roundness beneath his belly button that makes Chris want to pin him down and fuck him senseless. If Sebastian _really_ got chubby, more than just a little bulky like he is now, Chris thinks this would be one of the places he’d gain weight first, getting thicker and softer around the middle with every ounce. 

“So fucking pretty,” he mumbles again, and then he doesn’t hesitate, just wraps his lips around Sebastian’s dick and pulls him into his mouth. 

Sebastian groans, and he shoves his hips forward once before he seems to get himself under control, holding still, but his body practically vibrates under Chris, like he’s doing everything he possibly can to keep from thrusting forward. The truth is that Chris could take it just fine – a part of him even kind of wants to – but he likes that Sebastian’s trying to hold still for him. Be good for him. 

“Oh, _shit_ , Jesus,” Sebastian says, and Chris opens his throat and takes Sebastian in as far as he can, humming around his cock, his left hand still clutching the curve of Sebastian’s tummy and squeezing a little, in rhythm with his mouth. It feels so good, having Sebastian in his mouth and his hands, feeling him everywhere.

When Sebastian is whining, reedy incoherent little whimpers that have Chris grinding his dick into the mattress, he pulls off and uses his hand for a minute, spit-slick and fast. “You’re doing so good, honey, you’ve been so good.” It’s just nonsense, sweet words that should be embarrassing, too intimate, too gentle, too much praise, but Sebastian’s nodding frantically, eyes glued to Chris’s. From this angle, Sebastian looks _soft_ , a little hill of tummy and a pudgy double chin, and god, Chris wants to fuck him senseless, wants to prop his legs up on his shoulders until Sebastian’s nearly bent in half, never mind that he’s sick, or stuffed so fill he’s probably miserable with it – Chris wants to fuck him so hard they both see stars. 

He doesn’t, though. Not tonight. Tonight he just nods back, tells Sebastian all the things he apparently wants to hear—“you’re so good for me, so good, that’s right”—and swallows him down again, tightening one hand on the softness of his belly, the other onto Sebastian’s thick thigh. 

It doesn’t take long; Sebastian was already on the edge, and when he starts to thrust, Chris moves a hand from his thigh to his hip and holds him down, doesn’t let him shove his cock forward even though he knows Sebastian’s dying to move. The restraint seems to be the thing that does it, finally pushes him over the edge, and Sebastian gasps again, chokes out his name amidst a string of inelegant expletives—“Oh, Chris, oh, _shit_ ”—as he comes, spilling down Chris’s throat. 

Chris swallows the first few spurts and then pulls off, lets Sebastian come on his own belly, messy and gratuitous, as Chris uses his hand, lazily jerking him through the orgasm. 

“There,” he murmurs, like they’ve accomplished something specific and important. “There, there you go.”

*

Sebastian tries to reciprocate, but Chris shushes him again, shaking his head easily, and when he stands up, Sebastian realizes with something like shame that Chris is still fully dressed, barely a hair out of place. It’s a sharp contrast to himself, flushed and a little sick, stuffed uncomfortably full, come splattered on the embarrassing swell of his gut. 

“Stay there,” Chris says, another easy order falling out of his mouth, and it’s so, so easy to just do what he says. So Sebastian does. 

When Chris returns a minute later, it’s with a warm washcloth and a cup of hot chocolate. Sebastian starts to shake his head—the last thing he needs is anything else shoved into his aching belly—but Chris just ignores him. “Here, for your throat,” he says, handing Sebastian the cup and then carefully swiping up the mess on his belly. 

He shrugs and takes a sip, and yeah, it does feel good. “Want some?” Sebastian offers, pushing the cup toward Chris when he sits back down. 

“Nah, my throat’s fine.” 

Yes, Sebastian is now intimately aware of the fineness of Chris’s throat. “Is it? Showoff,” he mutters.

Chris grins, toothy and charmingly goofy, and suddenly he’s more like the guy Sebastian jokes around with every day and less like the man who’d just pushed him down and told him what to do. “When you don’t look like you’re about to die you can return the favor.”

Sebastian laughs a little and takes another drink. “What makes you think I want to?”

“Don’t you?” Chris glances over at him, catching his eye.

“Yeah.” Sebastian swallows again, drinking this time just for show, just to have something to do. “I—yeah. I do.”

The expression on Chris’s face is something close to relief, but he just smiles. “Good.” 

Seb nods. Yes. It is. 

 


End file.
